


Kal AU: Kal is Kidnapped

by wheel_pen



Series: Alice [30]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Naughtiness, Red Kryptonite, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:37:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU subseries of Alice series. Kidnapped by persons unknown and held in a warehouse with contraband refined Kryptonite, Kal is unable to do anything more than plot bloody revenge on his captors and feel sorry for himself—until Jonathan comes to his rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kal AU: Kal is Kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Alice, my original female character, is new in Smallville. There is something special about her, and she and Clark form a relationship.
> 
> 2\. This series starts after the end of the second season—after the destruction of the spaceship and Clark abruptly leaving town.
> 
> 3\. Underage warning: This story may contain human or human-like teenagers, in high school, in sexual situations.
> 
> 4\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            F—k. If he ever got out of here, he was going to slaughter whoever was responsible for this. He was going to flay their skin from their body with his heat vision, like a laser peel, and if it took him a number of tries to get the technique right, then so be it.

            He curled up into himself as another wave of nausea hit. He’d already puked up everything in his stomach hours ago, and dry heaves were worse. He had tried to scoot as far away from the bricks of refined green K as he could, but they were still close enough to prevent him from escaping the rusty handcuffs that bound his wrists. He had to figure it was just dumb luck on his assailants’ part to keep him chained in the same warehouse as their contraband goods; if they really understood the meteor rocks’ effect on him, surely they would have taken away the heavy red and gold ring. Because while Clark probably would have called the police after escaping from their clutches, Kal was going to rip their internal organs out of their bodies and splatter them across the walls.

            It was hard to keep his mind focused on anything—like say an escape plan—but revenge scenarios seemed to hold his attention a little longer, however impractical they were at the moment. Fortunately the glowing green bricks were too far away to cause the unbearably painful curdling of his blood, the black veins that popped like they were trying to escape his body. He shuddered just thinking of it. No, what he was left with was weakness, shivering, vomiting, incoherence. If his captors were watching him, they probably thought he was the biggest wuss ever.

            So... someone was coming to save him, right? Granted, usually _Clark_ was the one to bust through a door in situations like this, and since Kal was using his body at the moment, such an event would seem unlikely. Next up was Alice—except she would be floored by the concentrated green K before she could do anything helpful. That chick was _so_ an alien. And that left... hmmm, probably no one. D—n. He really needed to make some more friends with superpowers.

            Maybe Pete or Clark’s dad would arrive—if they could find him. Or Lex perhaps, with his army of personal security. Mr. Kent wouldn’t be too happy about _that_ rescue. But f—k him, he’d get his son back, so...

            All Kal could say was that it was a good thing he had Clark’s body—and his mind, tucked back there somewhere—because otherwise he would probably _rot_ in this dark warehouse. No one was coming to save Kal-El, last son of Krypton—they were only coming to save Clark Kent, Middle America farmboy. If they came at all.

            Why the h—l hadn’t his b-----d of a father—that was his biological father, Jor-El—thought this stupid plan of his through a little more? Okay, I’ll dump my _infant son_ into space and aim him at some dinky planet where he looks like everyone else but has superpowers. And I’ll hope to h—l he’s picked up by halfway decent people, not like child molesters or anything. And just when he’s coming into his own I’ll pop back up and demand he drop everything to do as I say, which by the way is conquer the world. BUT, just to make things _interesting_ , I’ll seed the place with irradiated green rocks that turn people into homicidal mutants _and_ completely incapacitate my precious only child. I mean, what a moron. Or a sociopath. It reminded Kal of the way Lionel Luthor treated _his_ son—always pushing, yet always undermining.

            Well, where was dear old Dad _now_ , huh? Now that the last son of Krypton was seriously in danger of choking to death on his own vomit in the corner of some isolated rat hole? Even if he decided to tune in Kal’s brain, what was he gonna say—“Oh, I forgot to tell you, if you say these magic words the green Kryptonite will turn to gold and you can escape (plus become really rich)”? Jor-El was nothing but a computer program lodged in some ancient caves, which was just as well because if Kal ever met him he would pop his head off like a dandelion.

            Okay, so... still waiting to be rescued. Kal didn’t even know why the h—l he’d been kidnapped, or by whom, but if they would only reappear and drag him into a non-green-K-filled room for interrogation or torture or whatever, he would seriously kick some a-s. He’d show them _exactly_ who they’d been f‑‑‑‑‑g with, but he wouldn’t leave any witnesses to spread the tale. His goal would be to give the first officers on the scene nightmares that only years of hypno-therapy and possibly pricey medication could get rid of. Something truly... medieval was called for. No—farther back. Dark Ages. Something on the level of Crusader brutality and carnage. Something Viking berserker-esque.

            So. Still nauseous. Still shivering like someone taped down the “seizure” button. Still hardly able to move his arms, let alone break the ancient handcuffs. Focus. K-A-L-E-L. K-R-Y-P-T-O-N. Could he crawl _past_ the stack of bricks, to a corner far enough away that his strength would come back?

            He gave it a try. Fifteen excruciating minutes later he crawled back to his original corner, shaking, sweating, cursing through gritted teeth. He was being punished. He was being punished for his wild reign in Metropolis, for every busted ATM machine, every felonious assault, every incident of property damage and grand theft auto, every lie he’d told to every nameless girl to get what he wanted. Not to mention for his times in Smallville—for the rude things he said to caring people, for the bruises he gave Clark’s father, for the terror he instilled in Jessie, for the money he’d spent that wasn’t his, for all the pain he’d caused Clark’s friends (even though he thought most of them were dumba‑ses who treated Clark like s—t anyway). He was dead, this was Hell, and no one was coming to rescue him. His nose was running so he knew he was crying, curled up in his corner, but he didn’t care, he didn’t care at all, not about anything at all anymore...

            “Son?” He moaned as a hand touched his shoulder. His whole body ached. “Son, come on, let’s get you out of here.”

            “Wha--?” Kal gasped as he felt himself being forcibly, slowly dragged away from the meteor rocks, towards—what the h—l, was that _sunlight_?

            “Son, are you alright?”

            He was rolled onto his back, absorbing the warm yellow rays of the sun, soaking the shivers and the cramps and the weakness right out of his bones. “Mr. Kent?” he croaked, blinking up at the older man looming over him.

            “Just take it easy now, son,” Mr. Kent told him anxiously. “Can you break the handcuffs yet?”

            Kal tried and failed. “G-d, no, I can’t,” he exclaimed, panicking and tugging at the metal. “What if they’re lined with—oh, G-d—“

            “Easy, easy, boy,” Mr. Kent calmed him, and the weight of his hands shouldn’t have been enough to push Kal back onto the grass, not nearly enough. “Sometimes it takes Cl—a few minutes to recover.”

            “F----rs!” shouted Kal, jerking himself into a sitting position. His head spun. “As soon as I get these f‑‑‑‑‑g things off I’m going to find these b-----ds and start—ripping off digits, one at a time!” He tugged viciously at the cuffs and succeeded only in cutting into his wrists. “Motherf----rs,” he hissed.

            Mr. Kent stilled his hands. “Kal, calm down, you’re only going to hurt yourself,” he reasoned. “And you aren’t going anywhere _near_ those men. The police are on their way, they’ll take care of it.”

            Kal tried using his heat vision to set the warehouse on fire—or more constructively, to melt the handcuffs off—but all he produced were a few pitiful sparks. “Ah, s—t,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. The other hand rose with it, of course, being attached with the cuffs.

            “Do you think you can stand up?” Mr. Kent asked, glancing around. “We should get back to the truck and get out of here before someone comes to check on you.”

            “Those a-----es never bothered to check on me,” Kal scoffed, climbing to his feet. “At least I hope they didn’t, because I must have looked like a g-----n pansy, crying and puking and s—t.”

            Mr. Kent took his arm when he staggered a little. “You can’t help how the meteors affect you, son,” he pointed out, and Kal shrugged.

            “What the f—k are they doing with refined meteor rocks anyway?” he groused as Mr. Kent guided him to the truck. “Maybe we should call Lex and—“

            “We are not calling Lex Luthor,” Mr. Kent told him sharply as they approached the vehicle hidden behind some bushes down the road.

            Kal rolled his eyes at the familiar sentiment and Mr. Kent yanked the truck door open for him. As he was climbing in Kal made another attempt at removing the handcuffs and, to his surprise, the metal snapped like cheap plastic.

            “Ha ha!” he crowed, jerking the cuffs off his wrist and hopping back to the ground. “Time for some payback!”

            “Whoa, whoa there,” Mr. Kent said, stopping him with a hand on the teenager’s chest. Of course, it only stopped Kal because he allowed it to. “You’re not going back there. Suppose they’ve got more Kryptonite in there?” That thought at least gave Kal pause. “Besides which,” the older man added, “that kind of revenge wouldn’t be right.”

            “Oh, f—k _that_ ,” Kal declared. “I don’t think it was _right_ that they kidnapped me for no f‑‑‑‑‑g reason—“

            “No, of course not,” Mr. Kent agreed patiently. “But you’re better than they are.”

            Kal paused a moment, staring at him. “No I’m not!” he finally sputtered. “I want to go back there and dismember them, and I’ll enjoy doing it! You’re thinking of _Clark_.”

            He took a step forward but again Mr. Kent blocked his path. “Kal, I know you’re angry,” he began, “but you can’t use your gifts to take advantage of people, even if you think they deserve it.”

            “That’s exactly what I’m _supposed_ to do,” the teenager countered harshly. “That f‑‑‑‑‑g b-----d who dumped me in a spaceship and gave it a shove in this general direction is always telling me that’s my purpose here—“

            “Kal,” Mr. Kent interrupted emphatically, “we’ve been through this with Clark. I don’t know what kind of a... man Jor-El is—was—but neither of you has to listen to him. You forge your own destiny.”

            Kal thought it over for a moment. He knew his moods were quick to change, and even now the murderous rage he’d felt only a few minutes earlier was starting to fade. Oh, if he went back into that warehouse he’d have a grand old time roasting his kidnappers in their own juices... but he was thinking it would be _more_ fun to find Alice right now and cause a little trouble the old-fashioned way. She was probably right—he was way too unfocused to conquer the world.

            Besides, well, Mr. Kent was giving him that _look_ , and... “Hey,” Kal said suddenly, as something dawned on him. “You called me son.” Mr. Kent smiled a little. “Even when you knew it was... not Clark.”

            Mr. Kent put a hand on the teenager’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Kal looked at it as if it were a foreign thing, though not entirely unwelcome. “Well, you may not _act_ like Clark—or talk like him”—Kal smirked a little—“but you’re still _part_ of him. Your mother and I aren’t going to turn our backs on... either of you.” The pronouns were a little awkward, but the sentiment was clear.

            Kal sighed and was on the verge of agreeing to leave when his sensitive hearing picked up police sirens. “Ah, s—t,” he repeated, disappointed. “The cops are coming.”

            “We’d better get out of here, then,” Mr. Kent decided, hurrying to the driver’s side.

            Kal climbed into the cab and shut the door, still a little subdued. As Mr. Kent pulled the truck back onto the road, Kal stuck his head out the window and lasered the side of the warehouse, near where he’d spotted some oil drums earlier. There was a _minor_ explosion, followed by five confused men dashing outside—right into the arms of the approaching police. Kal settled back in his seat with a smug grin, while Mr. Kent just shook his head.

            They were halfway back to the farm when Kal realized something else. “I’m still me,” he said suddenly, then felt he fully deserved the odd look Mr. Kent gave him. “I mean,” he clarified quickly, “you could have taken the ring off while I was still handcuffed, still in the warehouse.”

            Jonathan looked thoughtful. “Guess I could have,” he admitted slowly, eyes on the road. “Just didn’t think of it.”

            “Bulls—t,” Kal proclaimed and Mr. Kent smiled a little. He thought about it a while longer, wondering why this man he’d given nothing but trouble would avoid taking advantage of him when he had the power to do so. _It wouldn’t be right,_ Kal supposed. It was one thing to get rid of Kal when he was actively hurting people—like that bimbo Jessie—but another when _he_ was the one being hurt. At least, he supposed that was the distinction. He didn’t really get it himself, and suddenly he wondered if he ever would—was he capable of learning and changing, or would he always follow whatever juvenile impulsive popped into his head? Was he a separate, whole person, or was he just some subset of Clark’s unsavory emotions that he preferred to keep in a separate box? Kal realized quickly that he lacked the patience to be as introspective as those questions demanded and instead he did what he was best at—an impulsive act.

            “Here.” Kal ripped the red and gold ring off his finger and handed it to Mr. Kent, and then for him at least, the world went black.

            Jonathan almost drove off the road catching the ring Kal suddenly tossed to him, then righted the truck only to swerve again when he noticed the teenager next to him slump dangerously in his seat. “Kal? Clark?” He wasn’t even sure which name to call out. Jonathan stopped the truck just inside the lane leading to the farm and gave the boy’s shoulder a shake. “Son?”

            “Dad?” Clark sounded groggy, but it was definitely him—even their voices were different.

            “Clark, are you alright?” Jonathan dropped the ring he still held into his shirt pocket, intending to dispose of it later. Clark would no doubt find another source, when he wanted to, but at least it wouldn’t be so... convenient.

            “Uh...” The teenager straightened up, shaking his head to clear it. He glanced around, clearly not expecting to find himself in a truck on the farm. “Ah, geez...” he sighed finally. Definitely not Kal, Jonathan noted. “I feel awful. What happened?”

            “You don’t remember?” Jonathan was worried about the fact that Clark seemed to recall less and less of what “Kal” did—it was weird enough when he started going by another name, but Jonathan really hoped the red Kryptonite wasn’t doing any permanent psychological damage to his son.

            “I remember something about riding the motorcycle,” Clark began slowly, “and then there were these weird guys—“ He sat up suddenly. “Kal—I—didn’t hurt anyone, did... we?”

            Jonathan shook his head and motored the truck down the lane. At least he seemed to be getting through to Kal more often these days. “No, son, no one was injured.” This time, he refrained from adding. Clark’s lecture on the responsible uses of red Kryptonite could probably wait until after dinner.


End file.
